


Freedom

by mathildia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Caning, Chastity Device, Dom/sub, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Romance, Sex Bets, Smoking, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, endless homophobic slurs, hot power top jack rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock has made bets with Jack before.  He usually loses. Most often, Jack persuades him he wants to lose. Gives him a heavy measure of vodka with ice, pulls him into his lap and whispers, hot in his ear, the full, delicious, humiliating details of what losing’ll mean - what Brock’ll do, how Brock’ll beg - and then, then Brock’s king’ll topple as fast as he does, onto the floor at Jack’s feet; whimpering with desperation already as he presses his mouth to Jack’s boot. </p><p>But Rogers and Jack have never made a bet before. Until today. Rogers and Jack, neither of whom, Brock is certain, would countenance losing to the other. Which is how Brock Rumlow has come to have a ringside seat for what he’s sure is gonna be the show of the century. He doesn’t know if he’s delighted or terrified.</p><p><i>Yeah, he does</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Romantic Hydra Husbands and Steve

“So how will you win?” Brock says as he chases after Jack with a shopping basket.

Jack turns and throws in two more rolls of tape. “It’ll have a word it can say when its had enough.”

“What like a safe word?” Brock says, distracted; picking a vibrator off a smoked-glass shelf. It’s slimmer than he usually would have chosen, being more of a fan of girth than he often admits, but he likes the metallic pink colour. Without thinking he breaks open the plastic packaging so he can feel the texture. He taps it against his top lip.

“Safe word, that’s right,” says Jack. “I’m surprised you know what they’re called, fucker. I thought that kind of thing was beyond your fragile mind.”

“It’s not beyond me, I just trust you.”

“Yeah.” Jack turns around. “You fucking shouldn’t, you fucking idiot,” he says, taking a single step closer. Brock feels a familiar flip in his stomach. “Yeah?” he says back, soft. Thrilled.

Perhaps Jack looked to see if anyone was around - perhaps he didn’t - before he takes the pink vibrator out of Brock’s hand. Just the feel of Jack’s cool fingertips brushing his hand is enough to make Brock’s breath hitch. Jack smiles at the vibrator for a second, then brings it down and holds it against his crotch of his pants as if it’s his own hard dick. “What do you think? Suit me?” He winks.

Brock doesn’t know what to say. Before he notices what he’s doing, he’s bitten his lip. _So fucking obvious._

Jack leans a little closer. “Go on then, cocksucker. Give it a proper test.”

Brock nods and his breath is already coming heavy as he lowers himself onto his knees, looking up at Jack, hoping his wide eyes looked sufficiently grateful. Hard in his pants, he presses out his tongue like a slut and leans towards the length of the pink silicone that is, for now, Jack’s dick. But just before his tongue touches it, Jack grabs him by the hair and yanks him back, making him yelp with frustration. “Jesus, fuck, you’re a desperate fucking cunt, trying to suck off a fucking dildo, you cock hungry fucking faggot. _Unbe-fucking-lievable_.” Jack tugs harder and yanks Brock to his feet. “Like we have time for your sick fucking games,” he says, tossing the toy into the basket.

*

Rogers is naked, kneeling in the middle of the new rug, arms clasped behind his head, which makes his chest look big and nice. Brock’s naked too, just lolling on the couch, a more luxurious perch than he thought he’d get for this. And Jack’s making them wait. Taking a shower, taking his fucking time.

Brock has made bets with Jack before. He usually loses. Most often, Jack persuades him he wants to lose. Gives him a heavy measure of vodka with ice, pulls him into his lap and whispers, hot in his ear, the full, delicious, humiliating details of what losing’ll mean - what Brock’ll do, how Brock’ll beg - and then, then Brock’s king’ll topple as fast as he does, onto the floor at Jack’s feet; whimpering with desperation already as he presses his mouth to Jack’s boot. 

But Rogers and Jack have never made a bet before. Until today. Rogers and Jack, neither of whom, Brock is certain, would countenance losing to the other. Which is how Brock Rumlow has come to have a ringside seat for what he’s sure is gonna be the show of the century. He doesn’t know if he’s delighted or terrified.

 _Yeah, he does_.

When Jack finally bowls in, dropping a heavy bag by the couch, Brock’s heart just flips right over. He isn’t naked. He’s in jeans, big boots and a black shirt with short sleeves that shows his nice, hard arms. He’s unshaven and his hair’s pushed back, slightly damp from the shower. He has a half-done smoke in his mouth and, as he reaches his chair and turns to sit, he takes it from his mouth and blows out a long plume of blue-grey in Rogers’s face. Jack looks from Rogers, to Brock, to Rogers again, “Alright then fags,” he says, with a wink. “Time to do this fucking shit. We play this fucking bullshit game until Rogers taps out and says the word, unless I run out of ideas. Which I fucking won’t. So come on them you ridiculous piece of shit.” He looks at Rogers, steady. “Let’s have a look at this sick fucking bullshit. Crawl.”

Rogers pitches forward onto his hands and knees. He’s very beautiful naked. He must know. Brock would be touching himself seeing this if he could, but Jack’s made sure he can’t. Rogers crawls in an arc to Jack like a needy animal, spine dipped, hips swaying. Brock can see in his shoulders, how heavy he’s breathing already, how much he fucking wants it. Needy whore. When he reaches Jack, Jack looks down at him and takes a long drag on his smoke. “Yeah,” he says, flicking ash in Roger’s general direction, “Well, that looked like shit, you lazy, cocksucking fuckslut. Went fucking soft in my pants watching that crap. Get right over there and do it again and this time make me fucking want to touch you.”

The gasp of arousal Rogers makes at that goes straight to Brock’s dick. 

Rogers crawls right back into the corner of the room then crawls to Jack again, slower, whimpering softly as he does it. When he reaches Jack he kneels up and shows Jack his body, Brock can just picture the desperate, fucked-out expression on the cunt’s face. “Fine,” says Jack. “That will have to do.” He runs a hand over his crotch as he takes one last drag on his smoke. “Tongue, slut” he says sharply. 

Rogers puts his tongue out, eagerly, and then Jack just crushes his smoke out on it. Rogers’s shoulders shake, but he doesn’t even make a fucking sound. Brock writhes on the couch, wishes even more fervently that he could touch his own dick, cream himself to the thought of Rogers taking a smoke being stubbed on his tongue without a fucking word - as Jack’s fucking brutal fucking opener. But he can’t. He can’t touch his dick.

He can’t because an hour ago Jack locked a fucking cock cage on him.

“Because none of this is for you, faggot, and I don’t want you forgetting.” The cage is spiked inside so it hurts even if Brock isn’t hard, and it’s torture if he is. Brock had been hard as it went on. Hard with Jack’s cruelty and hard because Jack had made him fetch the cage in his mouth, crawl to him with it, and then beg him for it, beg Jack to be locked into it, beg not be allowed to come, not to get hard. Brock bit his lip on the couch as he thought of it. Jack dangling the nasty fucking cage in his big fingers. “You gonna beg me for this, fag? You gonna ask me real nice to lock up your filthy dick? You know you need control.” He wrapped his other hand around Brock’s dick and Brock gasped out. “Not like you can control it yourself, is it?” And Brock had nodded and begged for it, for Jack to take his dick away from him.

“So,” Jack says, catching Rogers’s chin, pressing his thumb into Roger’s mouth, digging his nail into the burn so Rogers keens. “Now, I ain’t gonna restrain you or nothing like that. I ain’t gonna make it easy on you. But you’re gonna go fetch my cane. And I know how much you want to feel that, I know how much you want pain, I know you’re a slut for it, so you can crawl, just so I can see you’re eager.”

Rogers gets onto all fours again and turns around so Brock can see his face. He’s flushed in the cheeks, lips puffy and parted, eyes black with lust. Brock stares at him as he crawls over to the bag Jack dropped by the couch. Rogers gets the cane out with his mouth like a dog. Brock’s hips jerk as he watches it. And, as he watches Jack put Rogers over the back of his armchair and start to caress his ass with the cane, he’s whimpering with the need to touch his dick.

Rogers is breathing hard, trying to get ready for it, but he’s still not ready when Jack pulls the cane back and smashes it onto Rogers’s ass. Brock watches Rogers face and moans out loud. His hand folding uselessly around his imprisoned dick.

Rogers takes the cane, stoic, with barely a flinch and it’s so hot Brock starts rubbing on the outside of the cock cage, desperately trying to feel something though the spiked bars. Jack meets his eyes and smiles, then hits the back of Rogers’s thighs, and this time, Rogers yells out. By the third set of ten, Rogers is biting his lip bloody, Brock is beating his fists on the couch at his sides with frustration and Jack has a little sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Alright,” says Jack. He finally looks over at Brock, his dick is hard in the cock cage, leaking inside it. Jack nods at him. “Now you, daddy.”

“What?” says Rogers, snapping back to lucid.

“He plays too,” says Jack, still looking at Brock. “He’ll be a pissy little bitch if he doesn’t get any attention. So, here’s the game, he takes what you take.”

“No, sir,” says Rogers, still panting a bit from the cane. “No.”

Brock takes a shaky breath. He stares at Jack. Rogers stares too. “I can’t, sir,” Brock says. He can’t take what Rogers takes. Not even close.

“Heh,” Jack says. “Don’t look so down. Either of you. Gotta give myself some leverage up against this cunt’s lack of fucking self preservation, ain’t I? I put a smoke out on his tongue and he didn’t fucking flinch. What do you think I’m fucking going to do, Princess America? Set you on fucking fire. You dumb whore.” He shakes his head as he leans down over Rogers’s back. “What is this even about, fag hole?” he says into his ear.

“It’s about me and you,” says Steve, chin high, voice hard, as Jack rubs against the welts on his ass and thighs.

“Sure it is, you romantic fuck. But we can’t go leaving your dumb cunt daddy out. He want’s to be here, don’t you, fag?”

Brock swallowed. “Yes,” he says. “Yes daddy. Please let me stay.”

“You sure you wanna? You have to join in.”

“I know. I want it. Let me stay,” Brock says. Because even that cane isn’t worse than being told to leave. “Let me watch you. I’ll take it.” He takes a swallow.

“Good. Now get over here.” Jack turns to Rogers, whose shoulders are heaving. He’s naked and glowing. As he moves aside, Brock has an amazing view of the nasty double ridged welts that cover his ass and thighs. Some of them trail a little thin blood. “He really hates this, by the way,” Jack is saying. “And you’ve made it so he has to take thirty.” 

“You did… you didn’t tell me that. You never said that would fucking happen.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what you thought this would be, fag hole, but life is full of surprises.” Jack sounds angry. Brock knows it then, this thing of Rogers’s has made him angry. Jack almost never loses his temper. But if something would do it, it’s probably Rogers pushing him this way. Brock bends over. The idea of Jack hitting him with a cane when he’s angry horrifies him. And yet… He makes a single, strangled sobbing noise at the thought, but, at the same time, his filthy little heart flips with desire.

“Get around there,” Jack is looking at Rogers. “Kneel in front of him and tell him you’re fucking sorry.” Rogers moves, graceful as a dancer; he walks around in front of the chair and kneels facing Brock. Jack is drawing the cane along the crease below Brock’s ass, making Brock shake. He says, “Go on, fag hole. Fucking say it.”

Brock looks up and into Rogers’s dewey eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. His throat moves. “Daddy.”

“Heh,” says Jack, “nice.” He’s still sawing at Brock with the cane and, in another sort of game, and if this wasn’t the fucking cane, Brock would turn around, get cocky, ask Jack if he planned to actually hit him this evening and earn himself a rain of vicious blows that left him delirious. But he doesn’t, he waits and Jack says, “Hold him down, cunt, this won’t be pretty.”

Rogers reaches out and takes one of Brock’s wrists in each of his big, dainty paws. Brock thinks, for a second how Rogers has such pretty hands, before Jack hits him hard across the ass with the cane, and Brock howls in pain, jolting forward into Rogers, bumping their lips together.

“Aww, kids,” says Jack behind them, “you wanna give your toy fag a little kiss. Go on then, kiss it. Do it sweet. Give daddy a nice show.”

Brock moans and he sees Rogers’s mouth quirk. He likes that. Likes being watched. And who wouldn’t want to watch Rogers and his beautiful face and near-indestructible body? _Rogers is the beautiful one._ That thought hurts more than the cane stripes, but then Rogers leans in and kisses Brock slow and so soft with that dumb, puffy mouth of his and Brock’s dick jerks inside the chastity cage and Jack says, “Heh,” like he’s charmed or something, before hitting Brock so hard with the cane he screams and bites Rogers’s tongue. Rogers moans - hot for pain - as he breaks away; a little blood in the spit on his chin, rust in Brock’s mouth. 

The cane comes down again and Brock wails for a long time, so hurt he can’t even beg, knows there’s no way out. Rogers is still holding him down and it’s all fire. His ass is fire. His legs are shaking.

For the fifth stroke, the noise Brock makes is a broken sob as he slams his head down, down into the cushion on the back of the chair. His throat is raw. The cushion smells like Jack, and Brock takes two more stripes like that, sobbing into the leather. He struggles then. Desperate. He tries to pull his wrists out of Rogers’s grip, but he can’t, tries to twist away, but Jack pushes him back down. By the time they reach ten, Brock is ugly crying, so out of control he might even piss himself, can’t tell one stroke from another. The shame of the mess he’s in burns, but it isn’t worse than the pain because nothing could be.

Brock lifts his head, wanting to howl louder, at least let that cunt know what he’s doing to him, but when he does, Rogers’s face is right there and suddenly, Rogers is licking into his mouth, and they’re kissing again. And it doesn’t help much but it helps a bit. Through the blood roaring in his ears he hears Jack say, “Oh, nice, that’s real sweet. Let me see your fucking tongues.” Rogers pulls back a bit from the kiss so their tongues play over each other, soft and wet, making a show for Jack’s pleasure as Jack fucking canes him. Then Rogers is licking at Brock’s upper lip. Brock whines for it, strains forward to kiss back. His dick is trying to get hard again. Rogers is so pretty and by some miracle the pain has turned - finally - into a soft cloud of sensation that he can’t quite process. 

He’s gone for a moment, must be, because next thing the caning is over and Rogers isn’t holding him and Jack’s there in front of him, and all Brock is really aware of is Jack spitting in his face and saying, “Heh, you checking out there, princess? No you don’t.” Jack kisses him. So brief, just a brush of his lips, a fluttering scratch of Jack’s scruff, but Brock feels like Jack has just lit him on fire. He wants Jack to kiss him. Aches for it. Wants Jack’s mouth on his, long and slow, real faggy and romantic. He whimpers for it. Jack ignores this.

He kicks Brock off his chair so he can sit down. He spreads his thighs and lights a smoke. Brock’s kneeling at Jack’s feet now like he’s been told - he glances at Jack’s big boot and wets his lips, opens his knees wide, showing the cock cage, hands behind his head, ass still on fire. Rogers is doing the same pose, back like an iron rod, huge hard thighs, big pretty tits heavy, chin up, not a mark on him now; he almost seems to glisten. It’s youth. That glow. Because Rogers is young in almost every sense of it. Young and beautiful. Perfect. And Brock is not. Brock is old. Brock’s body is hard and fitter than any other man of 50 he’s ever seen. But he’s a decade older than Jack and there’s a weird twist of shame to that, like kneeling on the floor like a bitch is somehow a young man’s game. And he looks at Rogers. Is always looking. Always comparing. And he can’t compare to Rogers, can never compare to Rogers. Brock can’t imagine Jack losing a bet, but he can’t see how he’ll win this either. What can’t Rogers take? And if Jack really is going to make Brock take the same… it makes Brock sick inside to think this might be lost to his own weakness. That the real loser at the end of this will be him.

Jack has a gag in his free hand. Just a black rubber ball on a strap, but the ball is big. Brock knows ten minutes in that thing is enough to make him feel like his jaw is coming loose at the hinge. Jack’s smiling at Rogers. “So this is for you, hole,” he says like he’s offering Rogers the most delightful gift. “‘Cause i know how pretty you look when you’re dripping all over yourself.” Rogers just looks at it. “He knows,” Jack nods to Brock. “He knows this thing well. Been pretty intimate with it, on account of his dumb fucking mouth. Never been in your sweet cocksucking face cunt though has it? Nasty, thing, isn’t it fag?” Jack looks over at Brock as he says that but Brock isn’t sure if he’s expecting him to reply. He says nothing. Jack kicks him on the thigh. “Answer me, fuck hole, or you wear it.”

Brock swallows. “It’s nasty, daddy. Please don’t gag me with it.”

“Half the time,” Jack says to Rogers, “this fag’ll fucking cry if I even get this thing out of the bag. The ball’s too big, so it hurts your jaw.” Jack let it swing in front of Rogers’s face. “An’ it’s hard. No fucking give at all. It’s a cruel thing. Cruel as shit. I put a couple of holes through the ball myself. So you can’t even swallow the tiniest whimper. I’ll hear every stupid fucking begging sound you make, and you will make them. And, of course, it will make you drool all over yourself like a desperate fucking bitch, which of course you’ll love, because it’s humiliating not being able to swallow down your own fucking spit and you’re a sick fuck. So, you ready for this in your mouth, cunt?” 

Rogers’s eyes flick shut for a second, then he looks Jack in the eye and just opens his mouth wide for it without a word. Just opens up for the gag like he’s desperate for it. Brock takes a shuddering breath to see that and Jack makes Rogers wait, mouth open for the gag. He sticks his smoke in the ashtray and reaches down to Rogers’s own hard dick and wipes his hand around the head. Rogers keens through his wide open, shaking mouth, keens just to be touched there, and when Jack pulls his hand away, it’s glistening with Roger’s own filth. Jack wipes it lasciviously over the ball of the gag. “Just to make it taste specially of dick for you, cocksucker,” says Jack as he shoves the gag in nastily, then forces Rogers’s head down and yanks the buckle at the back so hard that when Rogers rights his head the ball is pushed deep enough into his mouth that only a half inch of black rubber is visible between his forced-apart teeth. Rogers makes one, strangled, desperate sound, his cock jerks with arousal.

Jack presses at Rogers’s bottom lip with one finger, pries it back so a string of drool slips out. Rogers’s makes a soft, ambiguous noise. “Yeah,” says Jack, on a breath. “As we both know you’re not going to be saying that fucking word anytime soon, might as well plug that fucking mouth up.”

Jack’s lifts himself out of his chair for a second to pull something out of his pocket. It glitters, “Now fag, gonna make you even prettier, put these on yourself.” He holds out his hand and Rogers takes the glittering thing, stretching it out. Nipple clamps. Brock swallows. The worst ones. The sliver clamps with tiny serrated teeth. Rogers keeps his hand out with them dangling from his fingers like he’s confused what to do next. He’s drooling down his chin.

Jack smiles. “I said put them on your fucking self, you dumb fucking faggot. Fucking listen, can’t you?” He leans forward and flicks one of Rogers’s nipples. “They go here, cunt.”

Rogers makes a choked chattering noise behind the gag and a thicker spurt of drool oozes out of his forced open mouth. He shakes a bit. The sound he makes sounds like ‘you’. He makes another that must be ‘sir.’

“Nah.” Jack leans back in the chair, takes a drag on his smoke. “Fuck you Miss America, this ain’t some ambassadors reception for the world’s mightiest heroes. This is my game, the game you fucking asked for, and you put them on yourself.” He looks at Rogers, stares right at him as he pants behind the nasty gag. “Fucking do it. Or are you tapping out?”

Rogers looks Jack right in the eyes and twirls the clamps elegantly in his fingers. Then he pushes the first one open and shoves it hard and fast onto his left tit, still staring at Jack as he grunts into the gag when the teeth snap home. 

Jack runs a flat palm over the crotch of his jeans and says, “Good,” a little heavy.

Rogers’s shoulders shake a little as he takes the second clamp and snap it onto his other tit. He takes a hard breath through his nose.

Jack stubs out his smoke, stands up and walks around Rogers, trailing a hand across his face as he passes behind him. Not really doing anything, just touching him possessively, because he can. “Hands behind your fucking head, hole,” he says. “Do I have to think of every fucking thing you dumb piece of shit.”

He stops behind Brock. Brock’s heart doubles it’s speed. Jack bends behind him so his mouth is at Brock’s ear. “You like that, huh?” he breathes. “Like what I did you your fucking painslut hole?” When Brock doesn’t reply, Jack nips his ear and says, “I asked you a fucking question, answer me, or I’ll throw away the key to that thing locked on your fucking dick. Did you watch me?” Jack’s whispering. “Did you like it. Do you like watching me hurt it?”

“Yes daddy,” Brock says. Half a whisper, lips barely moving.

“You ready for your turn? I hear they hurt a lot. Not even a good pain. Just fucking pain. Just for you. Because I like it when you’re hurt. It turns me on. That’s why I do it.” Jack’s hands slip over Brock’s shoulder and tweak at his hard nipples. Brock whimpers and drops his head onto his chest. Jack moves his hands away and when they return, he’s rubbing a second pair of clamps over Brock’s chest. “Don’t you worry, cunt. I ain’t playing favourites.” If it was just Brock and Jack, Brock would beg not to be clamped. Would beg to escape pain. Would offer deals. Offer his ass, his mouth, let Jack laugh at him for having nothing he could offer that Jack couldn’t take and have Brock thank him for the attention. And he’d probably still end up clamped. But he won’t beg today. He has to take what Rogers takes. No point being a pussy about it. He takes the clamps with his jaw set. “Yeah?” says Jack, walking back around to his chair. “Feeling tough are you, fag? Put them on then - do them both at once and thank me for letting you.”

Brock does it. Pinches a clamp open in each hand, lines them up and lets them both snap down. The pain jolts back through him. He doubles forward, screaming out, drops onto all fours. He hadn’t wanted to scream. He cock twitches in the cage as he stares down at it, catching his breath. When he looks up, Jack is waiting. “Thank you, daddy,” he says, voice shaky. He’s panting with the pain.

“Thank you for what, fag?” Jack says.

Brock swallows. “Thank you for letting me clamp myself, daddy. For your pleasure.”

“Yeah? You like it do you?”

Brock presses his teeth together so he doesn’t scream again. “Yes,” he manages, half panting. “Thank you.” The pain is still going, a long, pulsating hot drone of it. Brock glances at Rogers who is still back straight, clamped tits thrust forward, fingers interlaced behind his skull. He’s struggling though. His chest is heaving and his shoulders are shaking a little. Brock can see the shape of the huge gag, the way it’s holding his teeth apart, forced so deep into his mouth, making Rogers drool all down his chest now and give a soft whining sound on every inhale. Brock looks quickly back at Jack.

“You a fucking painslut too, whore?” Jack says, reaching forward and under Brock to flick one hot, raw nipple with a finger tip. 

Brock yells. “Please. Daddy, no. Daddy, please. Please don’t.”

“Heh. Yeah,” says Jack, “thought not.” He reaches for Rogers, takes him by the chin and turns it so Rogers is looking at Brock, shaking on the floor, still fighting to kneel up. “See what you’ve done to your daddy, now, fag hole?” Jack says. “Aren’t you cruel.” He reaches over and pressed at one Brock’s clamped tits again. It hurts so much. Brock makes a low, strangled noise, trying to twist away.

Rogers’s throat moves, like he’s trying to swallow behind the gag, trying to get some relief from the monstrous way his jaw is held. He tries to speak, to say something, but all that comes out is a shameful, mess of noise. Brock thinks he’s trying to beg though. Roger’s blinks and his eyes are wet. He tries to turn his face away, but Jack’s fingers pinch tighter. “Look at him,” Jack hisses. “You can make this stop anytime, you fucking cunt.” He reaches around Rogers’s head with the other hand and flips open the buckle of the gag, it makes an obscene sound as it falls from Rogers’s mouth in a mess of drool. Rogers gasps and takes a hard shaking breath. “Yeah?” Jack says. “We can finish this any time you want.”

Rogers’s eyes flash. “Fuck you,” he says, defiant, jaw stiff. “You’re doing this to him. Not me. I never asked for this. I didn’t want this.” Brock takes a big breath. He’s never ever seen Rogers talk to Jack that way when they’re like this. 

Jack looks hard into Rogers’s eyes, like he’s trying to work something out. They stare at each so hard for so long that Brock thinks, for a second, that maybe they wouldn’t notice if he just slid out of the room. Eventually Jack says, “In that fucking case, filth, maybe you’ll find it easier if you can’t see him,” and before Rogers even says anything back, Jack has grabbed the roll of duct tape from the floor by the chair, ripped off a great long length and taped Rogers’s eyes shut. Jack is sticking down the end by slapping Rogers in the side of the head, when Rogers gasps out, “No. Please, no.” But it’s too late, it’s done and Brock is looking at Jack, as Jack turns to smile at him, holding the tape.

“God,” Brock whispers. “God, daddy. Please. Please don’t.” The pain in his tits has slunk away to just a throb and is nothing compared to the thought of having his eyes taped shut. Brock hates not being able to see if he is being hurt for someone else’s pleasure. If he can’t see that his suffering is pleasing Jack then how can he stand it? Brock will get on his knees and beg for pain if Jack is in the mood for it. If pain is what will pleases Jack then pain is what Brock wants. Will beg for it just to see Jack satisfied, to watch Jack’s eyes light with lust as he hurts him. He looks at Jack and Jack bends over Rogers. A big hand on Rogers’s big shoulder.

“Thing about this is,” Jack says to Rogers. “Your daddy, he really doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it if he can’t see I’m pleased with him, the sentimental cunt.” And he rips a long strip from the roll of tape and turns back to Brock.

“No, please. Please don’t tape my eyes,” Brock says again. “Rogers, please. Rogers, make him stop, please. Say it.”

Rogers has his head down, breathing steady through his nose. With the black stripe over his eyes he looks like he’s waiting for execution. He doesn’t turn his head. He just says, “Don’t, Rumlow.”

Brock looks back at Jack and shakes his head. He whispers, “God, please.” And he realises how rash he was to think he wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t offer deals, as he says, “Please daddy, don’t tape over my eyes. Let me see you. I can I suck your dick instead. If you let me see. Don’t tape my eyes, please.” Jack’s expression doesn’t change and Brock just breaks. “I want,” he manages, half sobbing. “Oh god, I want.”

“Yeah?” Jack leans over and takes Brock’s chin, adjusts his gaze up, sliding one finger into Brock’s mouth. Brock sucks on it. Jack strokes the back of Brock’s tongue. “What do you want, cunt?”

Brock groans. “Daddy,” he whines around the finger holding down his tongue. The word is messy and he leaks drool to say it. “Let me,” and it’s excruciating to be made to say it like this, with the words sounding messy and with wet down his chin. “Let me suck you instead, daddy. Please. I’ll do it so good.”

Jack smiles sliding his finger out and gripping Brock’s wet chin. “Oh, will you, faggot? Will you now? You’ll suck me good will you, you piece of shit? Will you take it all for me? Suck me until you can’t breathe? Beg for my come on your tongue?”

Brock moans as his dick jerks in the cage, trying to get hard with such a strong hot pulse it’s painful. He moans. “Daddy,” he says to Jack, like that should be enough. Like that one word should tell him everything. How desperate he was. How much he’d do for Jack, for a single touch, a glance.

“Alright, fag,” says Jack. “We can cut a deal. That suit you, Rogers?” Jack taps Rogers’s thigh with his boot. “Your daddy’s gonna suck my dick instead of having his eyes taped. “Course,” he snaps his arm forward and grabs Rogers by the hair, yanking him so he bends forward. “If he sucks my dick, you’ll have to pay for that.”

“Fine,” says Rogers. “Whatever it is, fine.” His voice is raspy like his mouth is dry.

“The price is,” Jack leans even closer and kisses Rogers on the temple, just above the stripe of tape that covers his eyes. “The price is, that if he sucks my dick now, you don’t get to see it, or touch it. It doesn’t go in your mouth, I don’t fuck you, nothing. Can you take that, faggot? No dick for you?” Jack pulls Rogers’s head back harder, so his throat is a long white line. Rogers make a soft, short moaning noise, but then he nods, somehow, pulling at his hair in Jack’s hand. Jack drops his grip on Rogers, steps over to Brock, unzips and draws out his hot, hard erection. Brock can feel the heat from it on his face. He bites his bottom lip. Softly, Jack says, “Do I need to fucking tell you to beg for it, faggot.”

Brock puts his hands behind his back and looks up at Jack. He wants Jack’s dick in his mouth so much he could cry. “Please,” he says in a whine. “Daddy, please.”

Jack sighs. “Please what, you useless cocksucking piece of shit?” He reaches down a flicks at one of Brock’s clamped tits and the pain flares across his chest. 

Brock moans, swallows it, holds Jack’s gaze and says, “Please choke me on your fucking cock, daddy.”

Jack smiles a soft smile and grabs Brock by the back of the head, forcing him onto his dick in one sharp easy move. Brock’s clamped tits bang into Jack thighs and he squirms, but Jack’s holding him hard. He cant’ control anything. Jack’s dick slams in deep and then Jack just holds him hard and fucks his skull as easy and nasty as if Brock’s face was Jack’s own fist.

Brock pines and keens around Jack’s cock. Just wails hopelessly. His own dick is swelling and jolting in the cage. Hot and hopeless. He loves being like this. Just a hole for Jack to use. Even though he’s drooling all over himself, even though he’s practically crying with shame. And he’s so bereft when Jack suddenly pulls out he gasps. “No, no, please.”

Jack slaps Brock’s face a little with his hard cock, smearing wetness around, pushing some over Brock’s bottom lip with his fingers. “Please,” Brock says, breathless. “Please, no. Daddy, come in my mouth. Please. Come on my face. I want to make you come, daddy.”

“Course you do, cocksucker,” says Jack, briskly. “But daddy’s still got business to attend to.” Jack reaches down and strokes Brock’s face again, then, without any warning, he snaps the clamps off Brock’s tits. Brock screams and falls forward against Jack’s leg. Jack shoves him back. “Don’t do that, fag,” he says. “Your face is covered in god knows what fucking shit, you filthy fucking slut. I don’t want it on my pants, do I?”

Brock swallows. “Sorry, sir,” he says as Jack turns back to Rogers and rips the tape off his eyes, Rogers flinches, but underneath it, he’s changed.

Being ignored has made Rogers go softer. Brock can see it in his eyes. Brock would never have thought Jack had a chance at this bet. Against Rogers who can take anything. Rogers who jumps out of planes. But Rogers hates being ignored. Sometimes Brock thinks he likes pain so much because pain is just a kind of amplified attention. Jack grabs Rogers’s jaw and opens his mouth, shoves his thumb in and rubs over the burn there. “Come on, cunt,” Jack murmurs. “That’s enough big hero Captain Fag shit now. Let it fucking go for me.” Because Jack knows Rogers is half gone. Because Jack can make Rogers into a heap of confused jello that doesn’t know what it wants. And for the the first moment, Brock wonders if Jack can actually win this. “Beg for the clamps to be taken off, fag,” Jack says.

Rogers wouldn’t have begged a few minutes ago, but his eyes have gone glassy, his mouth is loose and willing. He looks at Jack, “Please, sir.”

“Please, what?”

“Please take the clamps off me, sir. So you can use me some more.” Jack reaches out and pulls them off, doesn’t even unclip them, just yanks them away. Rogers moans soft. “Daddy.”

“Yeah, faggot. That what you want? You want your daddy to use you some more?”

Rogers nods. “Yes, daddy, yes. Fucking use me.” Rogers takes those deep slow breaths that Brock has seen a bunch of times before when Rogers starts submitting. “I’m yours,” Rogers says. “It’s all for you. Please fuck me.”

Jack smiles. “Think you lost that privilege a round or two ago. How about you kiss my fucking boots instead. Reckon that’s about what you’re good for now.”

Rogers nods, bends, and licks over the toe of Jack’s boot, slow, showing Jack his tongue. Brock sighs to see it. Rogers naked on the floor where he belongs. Rogers kisses Jack’s toe then kisses all over the top of his boot before sitting back up.

He looks up at Jack. Jack half-smiles. “Yeah. I got two fucking boots you useless piece of shit.” And he grabs Rogers by the hair and shoves him down, forces his face onto the other boot and Rogers gasps and licks it as best he can with Jack’s hand on his neck. 

When Jack lets’ Rogers up with his lips all swollen and sticky, he says, “You got something to say to me now, cunt?”

Rogers swallows, “No sir.”

“I see,” Jack says carefully. “And after I’ve been so damn nice to both you fucking fags. No sandpaper. No fucking piss. So how about you give me a break and go stand over there. Both of you, facing the wall.” 

Rogers gets up and goes to the wall. So does Brock, as Brock passes him, Jack caresses the marks that cover his ass. “You’re gonna be a nice view marked up like this slut,” he says and Brock moans.

They both face the bare wall as Jack has directed. Jack’d had Brock stand against this wall before. It was a great game of Jack’s to make Brock stand there while he tormented Rogers, licked and bitten his big tits until he was whimpering Jack’s name, begging for Jack’s dick. Once Jack had made Brock face the wall and listen while he bent Rogers over the back of his leather armchair and rimmed him until he was incoherent, keening to be fucked, offering anything, choking out, at Jack’s request, the assertion that he was nothing, that he was Jack’s property, that Jack owned him. Jack had sighed and things had gone quiet, leaving Brock straining, forbidden from turning around to see what was happening. Sometimes Jack made it impossible for Brock to turn, made him hold a quarter to the wall with his nose or a sheet of paper with some degrading word or other - usually cunt - written on it. But on this occasion he hadn’t and Brock had eventually turned around to see Jack idly flicking ash from his smoke into Rogers asshole. He’d even threatened to fuck Rogers with his smoke, although he hadn’t done it. Brock thinks Rogers would probably heal a burn, even there, in a couple of hours - maybe Jack wasn’t sure. Maybe he just wanted to smoke up without tasting Rogers’s ass. In the end he made Rogers jerk himself off, fucking himself with his own fingers, sliding up his ass on Jack’s spit. When Rogers had come he was sobbing.

Jack’s behind Brock as he faces he wall, stroking the marks on his ass again. “I like these, fag,” he says softly. “I oughta cane you more.”

“Whatever you want, sir,” Brock says, pressing his forehead to the cool plaster. “I belong to you.” Jack pinches at a welt and he whimpers. 

“Sometimes,” Jack says, “I feel like I can’t hurt you enough.” 

Jack spins Brock around, pushes him up against the wall and kisses him. Jack kisses over Brock’s jaw, faces Rogers, and says, “You’ll never be special like this whore, will you?” He reaches down and rubs at the cock cage. Brock mews like a fucking kitten. Jack laughs. “Shut up, you love struck cunt.” And he pulls Brock over to the couch and onto his lap.

Jack unlocks Brock’s cock cage and Brock gasps. Jack tosses it aside and strokes him. “I only even put up with you Princess America, because this cunt is the kind of dumb fag that likes a place to look pretty.” Jack was edging Brock as he spoke now. It had hardly taken anything to get him on the bleeding edge. He rolls a flat palm over the slick head of Brock’s pleading dick. And Brock leans back, arches, arms behind him, palms on the couch, presenting, offering, his cock - his cock and his core - to Jack in the valley of his body. Jack’s fist is hot and wet and slick on him. Holding him tight. Holding him together. Holding him down. And not letting him fucking come.

“Turn around, faggot,” Jack says to Rogers.

Jack leans over and tilts Brock’s chin with the hand he isn’t using to jerk him blind. Lifts his lips to another slow, loving kiss. Brock melts, leaking out of his body. _Jack’s hot mouth_. Rogers’s is watching. Brock likes it. Maybe he likes being watched as much as Rogers does. _Sometimes_. Jack stops kissing Brock and turns his head so he’s looking at Rogers, who is leaning against the wall, watching them kiss, big and breathless. “You don’t get this from me do you, you cunt?” He licks over Brock’s lips. Brock moans. “And you never fucking will. Because he’s worth a thousand of you.” There are tears in Rogers’s eyes then, as he sinks to his knees on the carpet.

Jack pushes Brock off his lap and onto the couch, down, on his back, then climbs on top of him, caging him, pressing him down with his bigger, harder body. He takes Brock’s wrists, pins them up, above his head and Brock bucks up. The fabric of Jack’s clothes is rough where it scrapes Brock’s bare, vulnerable skin. Brock moans again, to be naked like a fucking slut while Jack is dressed, to be desperate where Jack is in control, to be held down. He can’t help it. “Jack.” That name. It’s so sweet as it skates over his lips. Jack smiles down at him, bites his chin. Brock has never wanted Jack as much as he wants him now. Just wants to be taken by him, pushed out of himself. “Jack, oh Jack. Fuck me.”

Jack bunches both Brock’s wrists into one hand so he can slap Brock’s face, light, it’s affection really. “I thought I told you to be quiet,” — Jack’s eyes flick up and down Brock’s body, owning it, just like that, he quirks a tiny smile — “Rumlow.”

Across the room, on the floor, Rogers says, “Freedom.”

Jack turns his head, lazy, like he’s forgotten the game was even on, then he he says, “Yeah. Nice.” He turns back to Brock, grinning like the bastard he is. He spits on Brock’s face.

Rogers is shaking, tears on his cheeks. Jack doesn’t look back over. He licks his spit from Brock’s cheek and whispers. “I only said all that to make him break, cocksucker. Now.” Jack lets go Brock’s wrists and sits up, flicking at one of Brock’s raw, punished tits so he yelps. “That cage might be off but your cock is still my fucking property and I like you fucking desperate.” Brock’s hips jolts at that. He whimpers. Jack gets up and strolls over to Rogers on the floor, stands over him. “And you can cheer the fuck up you, you stupid fucker. Can’t always win, even a big dumb hero like you.” Rogers looks up. His eyes are red and full of tears. His lips are swollen, wet, bitten pink with lust. Brock wonders if Rogers’s depravity runs to getting off on losing to Jack. Maybe it does. Maybe he wanted Jack to win, to grind him right into the dirt and show he could always take him. Maybe that did it for Rogers.

It did it for Brock. He jerks his hips at the thought. “Keep that fucking thing under control, slut,” Jack says without looking. “I know you’re sore that you lost, fag hole. But you were always gonna.” Jack shrugs lazily as he runs a hand over Rogers’s clenched jaw, lifts his face. “Wanna watch from the cage while I tie down and edge this faggy cunt until he’d let me shit in his mouth for the chance to fucking come.”

Rogers looks down for a second, then up at Jack. His eyes are soft but there he still is the stoic hero of a thousand stories. Brave and bold sturdy of heart, even in defeat. Rogers. Captain fucking America. “Yes,” Captain America says, “yes I will sir, yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. [Tumblr](http://mathildia.tumblr.com/)


End file.
